


The Delight and the Terror

by Dueregard



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Angst, Chocobros - Freeform, Drugs, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, FFXV, Gender-neutral Reader, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, No use of y/n, Reader Insert, Resolved Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Underage Drinking, jealous!Ardyn, protective!Ardyn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2020-07-20 13:22:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19992907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dueregard/pseuds/Dueregard
Summary: “The ancient Romans built their greatest masterpieces of architecture, their amphitheaters, for wild beasts to fight in.” - VoltaireYou won’t let Dr. Izunia get the better of you this time.





	1. Week 3: Domus Aurea and the “Individual” in Architecture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for stopping in.
> 
> Disclaimer: self-taught crash course on Roman Architecture. I won’t pretend to be an expert.
> 
> Let me know what you think! It’s been a while since I’ve done this.

You stare up at the red-brick building, counting vines of ivy trying to skirt under window ledges and across vents. It is beautiful in its own chaotic way and you find yourself liking your short walks around to the front of the art building more and more. Probably the oldest structure on campus. Built in the 30s -there was a notice out front that a new construction was planned for 2023- and beyond that, nothing had changed. The diamond panes on the tall windows refract the failing light with enthusiasm. In the reflection, clouds are gathering. A storm is fast approaching.

Fall quarter. Second year at university. Trying to find your footing again after a short summer. It hadn’t been as difficult the second time around, though the classes only seemed to get harder, more specialized. And maybe it was a newfound purpose or maybe just better roommates, but your GPA was steady. Even if your caffeine consumption wasn’t. You clutch a coffee cup in your hand as you take the short staircase up to double-doors opening like a pair of arms to greet you. 

Roman Architecture is not your favorite class. Not that you didn’t enjoy the subject matter or the professor. The lecture met at 5 pm on Tuesdays. For four hours. Four grueling hours when you should be eating dinner, should be doing stats homework, should be playing foosball in the rec room with Noctis and Prompto. Not that they didn’t enjoy themselves, sending you pictures of the dinner that Iggy had made for all of them which devolved slowly but surely into dog videos. 

The lecture hall is the first door on the left and a few groggy scholars have already set up camp towards the middle and back of the room. With your astronomy lab or your seminar classes, it wouldn’t have been noticeable. But only 15 other brave souls had enrolled. 

Just as you had last week, you plant yourself firmly at the end of the middle row in the midst of students. It’s where you’ve been sitting for the last three weeks; quick exit at the end of class. You sip lukewarm coffee as you look through your notes, trying not to grimace. Right. Caligula and Nero, the great fire. The next unit. 

You didn’t make too many notes on the reading. Mostly because you skimmed it and mostly because Prom was too busy sending you Kings Knight requests that you physically had to throw the thin art textbook at him to get him to stop. You both laughed about it when Noctis sat up abruptly on the couch where he’d fallen asleep earlier. ‘Nice hair,’ Prompto said and the assignment was forgotten. 

Now you still have five minutes to kill before class, so you flip open the book and begin. 

“Alright, everyone.” It’s the voice that startles you out of your thoughts. “It’s so good to see so many of you so eager today.” The sarcasm is cutting. 

You look down at the lectern on the small platform and behind it stands your professor. Dr. Izunia. The first week of his class you were too busy following along in the syllabus and checking the campus map on your phone for where the science building even WAS to notice him. The second week you’d been caught up in dog videos. But now, your phone is silent and your book is forgotten. You can really take him in. 

His voice was what frustrated you at first. Soft enough that when he dimmed the lights to go over slides, you almost instantly nodded off. Dynamic enough that when he began one of his many anecdotes, you couldn’t help but pay attention. He was a commanding presence. 

And now, he is pulling the scarf from his neck and draping it over the lectern. You’ve never seen him use notes during his lectures, much less a computer. Not even his slides on the antique projector include more than examples, diagrams, relevant quotes, and even these he seemed to recite by memory, giving each word its proper weight. He is a delight and terror to behold. 

“It’s only the third class, everyone. Don’t look at me like that.” But he doesn’t sound genuinely upset, merely amused. “At least tell me you did the reading. Jones, what new construction completed in 68 AD marked the architectural legacy for Nero, emperor of Rome?” 

“The coliseum?” 

“No. Next. You, Quincy.” Dr. Izunia pointed to the next sacrifice on the chopping block. You had begun to wonder why he had made a point to memorize his students names, but it was intimidating how the information seemed to come to him without hesitation or doubt. 

“The Domus Ah-erah.” 

“Aurea. Yes. Excellent. Now, everyone here is familiar with Nero, yes? The fiddle and all that.” There was quiet assent. “Now, while I’ve been discussing the early approach to architecture as a reflection of a culture built up by ourselves, now I will introduce you to architecture as a reflection of ourselves as individuals in the world. Does everyone follow?”

You nod before you realize no one else is. It’s the coffee; you’re tapping your leg under the small foldaway table. 

“Looks like someone is paying attention.” With that, Professor Izunia turns to the blackboard. The building is so old they haven’t replaced the blackboards with whiteboards and the whole room smells of chalk. He draws up a quick flow-chart. You can hear pens lazily scribbling it down. 

“Now, we see here that architecture is not only a construction of cultural values and interests, but that of individuals, too. Did you know that the Domus Aurea had a rotating ceiling to revelers could look upon the heavens physically moving above them. What do you think this says about Roman culture? You, Jones, try again. And if you mention anything about planetariums, I’m dragging you out of class myself.” It’s not particularly venomous, but no one wants to take him up on his threat. 

“The relation with the heavens, sir. Professor.” He adds and you draw in the margin of your notes. 

“Look at your critical thinking! I always believed in you.” It might be genuine, but seeing the flicker of a smirk on his face, you’d guess not. “Now, what do you think this says about Nero?” 

You yawn, setting your empty coffee cup aside. It’s too much movement. Like a predator on the hunt, Professor Izunia can detect a weakness, a falter in your step. He doesn’t bark your name, but instead lets it roll off the tip of his tongue, each syllable popping in that smooth-gravel voice you’ve come to appreciate. “What do you think?” He asks, when you don’t immediately answer. 

“Well, he has the ability to bring down the heavens for the pleasure of his guests. It’s a power thing.” You manage, closing your textbook. You had read the passage only minutes ago, but you hadn’t expected the gauntlet he’s putting you through now. 

“Yes. Well, that’s what the textbook says, but what do you think?” 

You can feel the tips of your ears getting warm, the tingle of blush blooming in your face. “It’s impossible to say for sure. There was only the one quote that survived about its construction.” 

He’d look impressed if he wasn’t smiling a wolffish smile while he returns his chalk to the tray. “So you’re saying that art is subjective?” It very nearly sounds like he’s making fun of you now and the heat in your face intensifies. 

“Yes. After the fire in 64, Rome was in chaos and disarray. It was a status move, certainly, but what he had truly thought of it is up for speculation.” 

“Do you have the quote there?” He approaches the first row of seats, the overachievers seated there seem to shrink away from him. So far away, it’s hard to comprehend how tall he is, how broad he is, hidden under a wool sweater and a jacket he seems to always forget to remove. His movements are leisurely. He has all the time in the world. He is in control here. 

“Uh…” You open the textbook again, nervous fingers and frenzied thoughts slow you down. “‘When the edifice was finished in this style and he dedicated it, he deigned to say nothing more in the way of approval than that he had at last begun to live like a human being.’” Your voice remains steady, but you can feel your stomach in your throat. 

“Now, who can tell me what that means? Quincy, you seem particularly cognizant today.” His unrelenting gaze has focused on someone else and you feel yourself settle back into your seat, feeling like you’ve dodged a bullet. 

Professor Izunia continues his line of inquiry and it feels less like a lecture and more like a test. Though, looking at the syllabus now, you see that there is only one final test and a research assignment serving as a mid-term. You thought it meant the class would be easy, but it’s about as easy as trying to best Gladio at Street Fighter. Unforgiving and thankless work. 

You glance over next week’s reading while the lecture continues. Dr. Izunia has finally given up on his interrogations and is now happily flipping through slides of the ruins of the Dome. Your own heartbeat in your ears has faded as you tap the end of your pen on the glossy page. The Coliseum. No wonder Jones- you think his first name might be Michael- had gotten mixed up. 

You’re underlining relevant information when you see something move out of the corner of your eye. The fluorescent light above you dims and you feel the brush of fabric against your elbow. “Ah, I see.” Molasses-thick voice, dripping with understanding. “It would seem you have better things to do tonight,” He repeats your name and your eyes go wide. You have to be grateful he didn’t see you checking your phone every five minutes last class, because Professor Izunia is looming above you, standing at your elbow on the aisle. 

At first you don’t know what to say. You can feel the eyes of the rest of the class, though some of them respectfully look away. “I was just…” 

“Just what?” He counters. And the flash of anger in your mind is very real, making you grit your teeth. 

“Looking ahead.” 

“Art History isn’t about looking ahead, you know.” He turns on his heel and saunters back down, the way he had come. He had successfully made his point, made his own power play. 

“I get it.” You look away and shut the book. The room is getting warmer, a thin layer of sweat at your hairline. A glance up and Dr. Izunia still hasn’t moved from his spot on the stairs, arms crossed over an immense chest. 

He repeats your name, tone lilting and bored. “If you’re so focused on the future, then maybe this isn’t the class for you.” He hasn’t stopped smiling all the while, knowing and scheming and whip-smart. 

You stand up abruptly, knocking your empty coffee cup over. Your textbook is tucked under your arm, the cover creasing in your tight grip. “Fine.” Is your best response, before he’s even halfway back down the shallow stairs. You’re going to regret it later but you can’t hear your own thoughts any more. 

This is as close as you’ve been to Professor Izunia, ten feet away, out of arm’s reach, but the details in his face had been previously lost on you. They smother you now with clarity. A strong jaw that might have been shaved yesterday and was now crowded with fine stubble. Gold, almost yellow eyes when he inclines his chin towards you. Tousled hair falling at his shoulder, ragged from the afternoon humidity. There’s something you don’t recognize in his expression. 

You turn away and walk deliberately up the stairs to one of the exits. It serves him right. This isn’t how professors are supposed to treat students. It was just a dumb elective, not a goddamn quiz show. You’re already looking up the deadline to drop classes when you almost miss a step leaving the building. 

Walking back to Lucis hall, waiting for the webpage to load on the shitty university WiFi, you have your answer. It’s too late. One day too late. Fuck. 

You shoot Prompto a text that you’ll be back sooner than expected. You’re not sure if it’s the chill or the anger that makes your fingers shake, but the emoji you get back in response sets you at an uneasy peace. Your new roommates are going to ask questions, especially Prom, who remains implacable for hours at a time. 

You have no doubt that your new-but-fast friends would be on your side. Noctis was already bitching constantly about his Econ class, and it felt like child’s play compared to this bullshit. 

The rain is beginning by the time you step under the awning and fumble for the key tucked inside your wallet. The rec room is mostly empty as you pass the doorway. Most everyone is taking advantage of the rare good menu item offered at the cafeteria. Your appetite is so distant you don’t even register the earnest growl of your stomach as you ascend the stairs. 

The room is blissfully empty when you step inside and throw your bag in your desk chair, letting the art history text slide out and land with a pathetic thud on the powder blue carpet. Good. You reach down to pick it up, all of its glossy photos and secondhand highlighted passages, and the sudden urge to rip it in half hits you hard. 

Instead, you set it on the desk and fall onto your bed. Your shoes come off next and the ceiling is suddenly so interesting. You hear Prompto before you hear the key in the doorway. 

“No way, Noct! I’m telling you, there’s an Easter egg for the event. We just have to log on and, see this, in settings, you’ll just have to claim the out- What’s up with you?” Prompto is unwrapping an M&M cookie and leaning over you when you open your eyes again. Noctis is just beyond him, sitting at the edge of his own bed. They bunked their beds on the far wall and Noctis insisted on the bottom bunk. 

Which seemed to be fine with Prompto, who’d covered the ceiling above his bed in polaroids and printouts of his pictures. A lot of the four of them, some sunsets, and some more thoughtful shots of the city. He seemed to add to it every day. 

“Nothing.” You realize you’d forgotten he’d asked a question. 

Neither of them look convinced. You pull on a new shirt, hanging yours up to dry. They both look at you when you sigh and let out a groan. 

“Don’t you have class?” Noctis never sounds like he’s teasing, but the barest of smirks sits on his face. 

“Yeah. I skipped it. Or I got kicked out. I don’t know.” You place a Cup Noodle in the dirty microwave. Whose turn was it to clean it out again? You couldn’t keep track anymore. 

You watch Prompto bite his tongue, letting you continue. And you tell them. You can feel your jaw tensing as you talk, as you remember that weird look Dr. Izunia gave you before you left. “So, I walked back here. Looks like I can’t drop the class without forfeiting tuition, so of course, that bastard waited until this week to really piss me off.” The microwave beeps and you take out the styrofoam cup, stir, and set it aside. You put the art history text on the lid to keep the steam in. Serves it right. 

“That’s fucked up. Can’t you go to the Department head?” Prompto sits backwards on the other desk chair, rolling it over to the two of you. The rain has done little to dampen Prompto’s sunny self, much less his rebellious hair. “You could talk to some other students-” 

“I don’t want it to get out of hand. Especially since I need the grade.” You roll your eyes and Noctis considers on his own. You and Prompto both know not to speak when he gets like this. 

“You could retaliate.” He finally says, matter-of-fact. 

“How?” You lean forward, intrigued. 

“You could blackmail him.” 

Prompto retorts with a chastising “No~ct!” While you laugh at the both of them. Noctis shrugs off his jacket and tosses it in the pile by his bed where you’re fairly certain ALL of his clothes have ended up. 

“What? Like catch him smoking behind the gym?” You start on your dinner, burning your tongue. 

“Maybe you could Saran Wrap his car.” Prompto offers helpfully, mouth full of cookie. “Remember when we did that to Iggy senior year?” 

You hadn’t heard this story. “Oh, my god, no. You didn’t.” You stare between the two of them, just imagining Ignis’s fuming face. 

“That’s the maddest I’ve ever seen him. You still have the picture?” Noctis chimes in, pulling out his phone to look through his photos. 

“Dammit. I know I do somewhere.” Prompto does the same. 

Now, you can pretend it didn’t happen. Safe and at ease with your newfound friends, you can relax and forget about Nero and his stupid Domus and Izunia and his even stupider class.

“Oh, here!” Prompto lurches forward, moving too quickly for the chair to keep up and tipping it. Prompto and his phone spill onto the pile of laundry. And Noctis is actually laughing. 

You realize then that you left your jacket on your seat in the lecture hall.


	2. Week Four: The Coliseum and “Cultural Power” in Architecture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’ll be the one to burn Rome this time.

You don’t want to admit it, but you have been considering blackmail for the last week. But that didn’t stop you from finishing today’s reading in a back-and-forth last night. You’re torn between actual interest in the subject and your absolute hatred of your professor and a passing grade. You take a break from the reading -“completed in 80 AD, Flavian Amphitheatre”- to glance over the syllabus. It’s creased from being shoved into your bag that first day. 

You notice there’s no participation points, no attendance points. You didn’t even have to really go! As long you kept up with the textbook, and finished a test and a paper. Was he even allowed to do that? Okay, okay. You can do this. And you can get your jacket back from the lost and found. 

It’s just four hours, after all. 

You’re more than on edge when you find a new seat in the back of the hall. At least he’d have to climb more stairs to give you a hard time. It’s a small revenge. You’re feeling like you want to burn down cities as the clock ticks closer. Over the edge and falling rapidly. 

There was no jacket at the front office, nothing set aside in the hall. The rain didn’t seem to be letting up and sweatshirts and hats weren’t cutting it. You push your soggy hair out of your eyes, settling in with another cup of coffee. You’d neglected to add sugar and the bitter taste set the tone for your mood. 

It’s five minutes past when the other dozen who decided to show up begin getting antsy. The storm is picking up so the sound of the rain against the row of single-pane windows on one wall is deafening. Ten more minutes until you could safely leave. Lacking a jacket, but at least you wouldn’t have to- 

“There’s no need to panic, everyone. I know you were all incredibly worried, but I assure you that I’m fine.” 

The door at the back of the hall has opened and you watch Dr. Izunia’s descent for once. He’s removed his hat already, dripping with excess rain. His hair is pushed out of his face this time, more cooperative in the mist. He might have shaved but it might also be the harsh, bright lighting on his tanned skin. Unknotting the scarf, he walks as quickly as he needs to, which is to say, at a meandering pace. It gives you a proper chance to really take in his strong profile. 

Professor Izunia lays out two coats on the back of the chair by the projector before he reassembles himself in an ivory button-down and form-fitting black suit jacket. Are those French cuffs? 

No notes today, no slides, you seem to conclude when he neglects the projector in favor of chalk. He writes out the same flow chart from last class and you can’t believe it when you hear people copying it down again. 

When he turns back around, you can see him scanning the class. Even at this distance, his gaze is cold and unrelenting as he takes in the crowd. You notice it then, too: everyone, even the students at the front, have shifted back a few rows. 

“A shame. I really hoped Jones would be here for this unit. Oh, well.” Dr. Izunia shrugs and presses on. He does not ask questions today, but instead, wades right into the reading. You can see that graceful way he maneuvers from the text, to more remote sources, and to his own experiences. It doesn’t at all sound rehearsed, but organic, off-the-cuff, so to speak. And, more importantly, you can also see that Dr. Izunia loves the sound of his own voice. 

You find yourself reluctantly taking notes. While you weren’t graded on attendance, it was obvious that the midterm and final would rely heavily on the lectures. He shared facts and whole tangents of history that the text only briefly touched on. Damn. It might be enough to get by- 

“I think we’ll leave off there for today.” The professor looks down at his watch. At some point, in the fervor of his presentation, he’d removed his jacket. His third jacket, if you’d kept count. The shirt underneath hugged broad shoulders and toned arms. Everyone comes to the same conclusion at once: class is over an hour and a half early. “We’re moving a little forward in history for next week. There’s supplemental reading for context and it is mandatory.” 

No one is listening, books closing, the rustle of coats and sweaters and you feel like you’re back in high school again. But Dr. Izunia pays the group no mind while he erases the blackboard. The eraser hasn’t been cleaned in some time, so he just smears the letters to into unintelligible curves. 

“Oh, I almost forgot.” It’s louder so the whole class freezes in their rush, including you, stopping as you zip your bag back up and grimace at a sip of your cold coffee. “Whoever left their jacket at our last class, I have it with me.” You are under the distinct impression he is deliberately not looking at you. 

You wait for the rest of the students leave with their air of relief while the clouds darken the dusky sky in the windows. Professor Izunia leans against the lectern, resting an elbow on the wobbly wood. The image of poise. The tilt of one hip might be coquettish, or he might just be impatient as you descend the stairs. Your feet are lead, each step heavy, until you stop in front of the lectern. 

Even now that you’re standing, Dr. Izunia well and truly towers over you. 

“I had a feeling it was yours. I was wondering if you would be coming back to retrieve it. Looks like I guessed incorrectly. Too bad.” You try to let it roll off, those words dripping like so much honey, uncomfortable and noxious. 

“Sorry to disappoint. I’ll take it back. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s pouring.” 

“I’m not stopping you, darling. Help yourself.” He waves a dismissive hand, carding the hair away from his face. 

You turn away from him before you make a face, bristling at the pet name, and brush past him. You toss his overcoat and scarf onto the table in an unkempt pile without a thought before shrugging on your jacket. Familiar fit, but it smells like… smoke and cologne. An earthy scent, just enough spice to surprise you. “You couldn’t bother washing it?” You purse your lips, glaring at his back. He’s leaning his elbows on the wood so the thin shirt adheres to his shoulder blades, the planes of his shoulders. Not that you’re thinking about that. 

“Why would I? It’s only been in my car.” He looks at you over one shoulder, through some strands of errant hair. 

“Fine. Whatever.” You sidle past him again. 

“Don’t you have something you want to say?” He straightens and you worry that he might follow you. The look in his eyes is searching and you’re certain he’s looking for nothing good. 

“Like what? The reading’s on the syllabus.” You inhale and you’re sure you’re never going to get that smell out of the wool. Should’ve charged him for dry-cleaning. 

“I had a ‘thank you’ in mind, but I would settle for a ‘goodbye’.” When he reties the scarf around his neck, a garish color of purple that does wonders for his blood-colored hair. Not that you know anything about wonders or his hair. 

“Really? Don’t you think you owe me an apology?” You retort. 

“An apology? For what?” He’s playing coy now and he wants you to know it. Of course, this vain prick and his superiority complex, no wonder people hate academics. Six more weeks of this? “You think I was mean to you.” 

“No. You should apologize to your feet for carrying around that huge ego of yours, Doctor.” 

“By ‘ego’, I assume you mean my winning personality and not something else?” It’s nearly suggestive the way he taps long fingers on the wood. You see that someone’s initials have been marked in Sharpie. “Nevertheless, how are you liking the class so far?” 

“The class is fine but I don’t like you.” 

“Good. Have you thought of a topic for the midterm paper?” 

“I was thinking about writing about Nero’s reign but I thought you might relate too strongly.” 

It doesn’t wound, doesn’t even scratch. Izunia is smiling again. It’s not what you want. You want to ruin, you want to wage war. His blasé attitude chafes at your patience. “Are you sure you should be saying that? I am still your professor.” 

“I looked at the code of conduct. Any disputes will be mediated by a department head, and I have a right to claim you have infringed upon my academic freedom if you willfully alter my grade.” 

He holds up his hands in mock surrender. Professor Izunia is wearing cufflinks. Gold and twinkling, twins to his keen eyes. “I meant out of common decency. Shouldn’t you show more respect to your teachers and mentors?” 

“When you start showing me some respect, I might return the favor.” 

“Very well. It’s true that I might have been a bit…” You’ve never seen him at a loss for words. “Earnest during last class. Maybe I could have been a little more diplomatic.” You have to wonder if it’s physically paining him to admit his wrongs. If that’s what this is. It’s hard to tell. 

A well of spite and sarcasm is rising in your chest, but you take the high road. Because you know you are better than him. You feel powerful, watching him glance at his watch, waiting for the silence to grow uncomfortably long. 

“If you’ll excuse me. I have office hours to maintain. But I’m glad you returned to class.” He throws his coat over one shoulder where it resembles a cape more than a suit, and Professor Izunia resembles a king more than a scholar. 

“Why?” You ask before you can think better of it. He’s already walking past you, each step purposeful. He’s shaken his nerves and now he looks like he’s luxuriating in a secret with himself. 

“Because I wouldn’t have known what to do with your jacket, darling.” 

Oh, maybe turn it into the lost and found like any rational person. You don’t say it. Remember. 

You’ve won this round. 

“Ciao.” He’s climbing the stairs, and he’s gone. Your triumph goes with him. Now you’re standing in an empty auditorium and thunderheads bloom outside. You let out a shaky breath and follow. 

Walking through the quad, buildings and trees and you swaying with the insistent gusts of wind. You turn up your collar and shove your hands in your pockets. You fingers close around a piece of paper. Receipt? You really have to clean this old thing out; thank god you hadn’t left anything valuable in it. The idea of Professor Izunia having any insight into your private life sets you on edge. 

You don’t usually feel like drinking, but the cold at the tips of your ears and the chill down your spine is enough to push anyone to it. A bit of whiskey to warm the gut. Maybe Prom and Noct would be into grabbing a bottle. Noctis had a fake ID and everything. Something you had found surprisingly useful during welcome week. You knew what they said: nothing like crime to bring people together. 

Shielding the screen with your hand, you unlock your phone. A message from Prompto in a group chat. Another plate of food, looking extra appetizing in the Pop filter. You recognize Ignis’s fine dishes as opposed to the plastic IKEA shit your suite mates have back in the room. 

A home-cooked meal on a rainy day sounds exactly like what you need. 

Room for 1 more? You message the group. 

The weekend before classes began, you discovered that Ignis and Gladiolus live together off-campus. Graduate students and family friends of Noctis, they liked to keep an eye on him. They’re a little older but they don’t act like it until they have to remind Noctis that they know better than him. 

You had been to Iggy’s five times since the quarter started. Not enough times to ever call him Iggy to his face, at least. Every time he’d make dinner and every time you’d lose money on Super Smash and Soul Caliber tournaments. Gladiolus might have been the only one who took it seriously, but even he gave congratulatory pats on the back that knocked the wind out of you when he lost. 

It’s a short walk to the townhouse. Old building, but well-maintained. You don’t get a chance to admire the rough-hewn stone or the wrought-iron gate or the window boxes diligently maintained with what must be delicate and thorough care. At the front door, you pull out your phone to let them know you’re here. Probably already starting on the games-

PROM  
_Doors unlocked_

IGNIS  
_Saved you a plate._

You try the door and it opens. Somewhere someone is shouting “Get the Smash Ball!” While someone else says “That one’s a fake! Don’t hit it!” Following the short hall past the kitchen and into the living room, you see a particularly heated scene. 

Gladiolus’s hands can barely hold the controller while Noctis stares in a cold focus. Only Ignis seems to notice your arrival, while Prompto is looking at the screen through the gaps in his fingers where his palms are plastered to his freckled cheeks. The tall man waves you over to the couch. Prompto sits cross-legged on the floor next to Noctis. 

You had asked about Gladio’s leather chair when you first visited. You’d never seen him sit anywhere else, unwilling to play the game of musical chairs. ‘It helps me win’, he’d said then. And looking at him now, you have to consider that he might be right. 

“I wasn’t sure when you’d be here, but there’s food on the counter.” It’s Ignis, rising to assist until you gesture for him to sit back down. 

“I’ll get it. I’m starving.” You kick off your shoes and lay your damp jacket on the back of one of the dining chairs on the small table in the corner. It’s a small space, but it suits them just fine. They fit well together; maybe someday you’ll be able to fit too. 

The kitchen still smells of roasted vegetables, salty broth. You serve up some hearty soup and pop it in the microwave. Ignis won’t mind, right? Over the counter, the enraptured audience erupts. “Holy shit, Noct! You had him!” Prompto shouts, elbowing his stoic friend who is still just staring at the screen. 

“Pay up, princess.” 

The ruckus has died down by the time you round the counter again. 

“Iggy, your turn.” Prompto hands the controller over while Noctis is counting out crumpled one dollar bills. You never bet for much. One time Prompto successfully got Gladio to treat them all to ice cream. 

“Alright. Gladiolus.” Ignis straightens in his seat on the couch to let you by. 

The rhythm is easy to settle into. 

“Oh, hey, I forgot to ask.” Prompto pivots to look back at you while Noctis is taking too long to pick his fighter. “How was class? Did you get kicked out again?” It’s not rude how he asks it, but you find yourself frowning. 

“No. He let everyone go early. Didn’t waste his time drilling us today.” 

“Maybe he was just having a bad day last week.” He shrugs one shoulder, more freckles scattered up and down his bare arms. 

“Yeah.” You say to appease him, you say it because you know that can’t be the case. Even if he might have held onto your jacket for you, even if he might have almost apologized for his actions. Just those things can’t redeem him from being an oppressive, narcissistic- 

“Changed your mind about blackmailing him, then?” You’re not sure if Prompto is disappointed or not. 

“Still a possibility if he tries anything again.” You reassure him, your own voice edged in threat. 

“Ooh~ Spooky. Maybe you should stop hanging out with Noct.” Prompto laughs before he elbows Noctis, who drops his controller and swears. 

The fight on the screen turns into a very real fight on the living room floor. You have to help Gladio pull them apart while Ignis tries to save the vase of flowers on the coffee table from tipping over. Your arms are around Prompto’s waist and Gladio has Noctis in a headlock. 

“Rematch.” Noctis says, trying to wrestle out of Gladio’s grip. It’s no use; a strong, inked arm keeps Noctis close in a vice-grip. Only Noctis would be demanding a rematch when he is incapacitated. 

—

It’s 11 at night by the time the guys start to wind down. You all have early classes so the call to bed beckons. Gladio pulls you into a crushing hug in the foyer, giddy now that he’s 20 dollars richer. “Don’t be a stranger, kiddo. And don’t let those two get you into trouble.” 

“I wouldn’t be worried about me if I were you.” You laugh, pulling your jacket on and shouldering your bag. “Thanks for dinner, Ignis.” 

You see Ignis’s brow furrow before he speaks. “Have you been smoking?” 

“What? No.” Your response is vehement, but you realize what it is. Godsdamned Professor Izunia. “Really. Someone… borrowed my jacket.” 

You feel four pairs of eyes on you. Ignis adjusts his glasses. They are all waiting for an explanation. 

“I left my coat in class and someone kept it for me. That’s all.” You laugh it off, feeling a blush rise from your collarbone, up your neck, and across your face. “I guess they smoke.” 

“O-kay.” Gladio looks down at you, thin scar winking in the hall light. 

“C’mon. It’s still raining.” Noctis says in the doorway. Beyond him, you see that it’s true. You don’t think the rain has stopped once since it started this morning. 

Ignis insists that you take an umbrella before sending you on your way. Trying to fit three people under an umbrella proves nearly impossible, Noctis pressed tightly between you and Prompto. The blonde’s hair is beginning to flag and Noctis looks miserable. 

The three of you are half-soaked when you fumble for the dorm key. Prompto shivers in his thin jacket as you usher the both of them inside. “Hey, I’ll meet you up there. I’m going to start some laundry.” 

“You want help?” Noctis asks, shaking the umbrella over Prompto’s head. 

“I should be good. Got enough money for some soap out of the vending machine.” You hold up your wallet before pocketing it. 

“Cool. See you up there. We’re gonna see how much of the Econ homework we can get through before we fall asleep.” Prompto waves as they exit. 

The laundry room isn’t deserted, per se. The machines are whirring enthusiastically, but there’s no one else in the room. On the far side of the room, you claim one of the older machines. There’s so much soap residue on the dial, the metal has turned a shade of bubblegum pink.

You turn out your pockets for spare change. Wallet, a pen cap, a mint wrapper, and a folded-up receipt. Ah, there we are. A couple quarters later and you’re shoving the wool coat into the washer. Just a cold rinse should do the trick. 

You gather the trash, unfolding the receipt to make sure it’s nothing from the printing lab. Your balance should be- 

But you stop. You read the words written there in looping letters you’d thought you could learn to appreciate two weeks ago. 

_“Hidden talent counts for nothing”_

_Warmest regards,  
Ardyn Izunia_

You hadn’t won anything at all. He always had to have the last word. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update, I guess? Might have been a little quick on the draw with this one, so if I missed anything, let me know. ^^*
> 
> Thanks so much for the comments and kudos! 
> 
> The next chapter, as of now, will be from Professor Ardyn’s POV.


	3. Week 5: Hadrian’s Wall and “Political Power” in Architecture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry about the wait.

### Wednesday

  
It’s the last pleasant week before autumn will weigh on the college. Too bad. This is when grades start to slip.

Professor Ardyn Izunia is legally obligated to hold office hours, and really, that was the only reason he hadn’t already bolted for his beloved car in the staff parking lot. The storm has finally broken, so the pressure headache that had settled between his temples is gone. But a new kind of ache is just beginning, at the base of his skull. And this headache has a name. 

Ardyn knew that when he did find his drowsy way to his car, with its flirty racing stripe and cracking leather interior, something would be waiting for him. An absence, a certain jacket on the passenger seat. 

He groans in the empty office. He’d just finished the finalized draft of the newest iteration of his infamous midterm paper, attaching the general rubric he used for all of his classes. And it had killed a total of ten minutes of the 120 he was destined to spend in the small room this afternoon. 

While he’d attempted to make it as comfortable as he was allowed (flagrantly violating the rules about curtains) it was still a room in a building that was too old to be very efficient in heating or cooling. The air hung thick, even in the warm light of the floor lamp in one corner. 

Ardyn checked his email. Again. Maybe Dr. Aldercapt, down the hall, would be up for a game of chess. The old man is counting down the days to his retirement and their limited department would grow even smaller. Oh, a new message. Probably an update on the HR portal, but… no. Ardyn has to pause. 

He recognizes the name, at the back of his head, where the ache sits, and before he can truly comprehend what he’s doing, he’s clicking it open. 

_Dr. Izunia_ , he scrolls down, too impatient to bother with the niceties. He hadn’t been expecting such a quick response, but with what little he knew about his least favorite student, Ardyn should have known that you couldn’t take a joke. 

_Thank you for returning my jacket. I noticed you left some trash in one of the pockets and I’ve seen fit to dispose of it for you._

__

__

_Warmest regards,_

How **precious.**

Ardyn catches himself smiling, palm pressed flat against his mouth. Properly scandalized. What had begun as a tedious diversion was beginning to take the shape of something more thrilling. It had been a while since he’d met someone who could match him, blow-for-blow, and do it so well. It’s just coincidence that it happened to be one of his students. The absence, the newly-present lacking, is fading. 

Now, Professor Izunia would spend the next -he checks his watch- 117 minutes thinking of how to respond, ways to retaliate. If you really wanted to play a game, he’d be happy to teach you the rules. 

### Thursday

  
Ardyn would never call himself lonely. He was isolated, certainly, but that was by choice. His relationships swung from one extreme to the other. Either marked by great distaste or great devotion. Mutual respect was not something he was accustomed to. So, maybe that’s why he wrote the note, maybe that’s why he stuffed it back into the pocket of your jacket.

He wanted to try it out. 

With the person who’d been most unwilling to return the favor. Because otherwise it might have been too easy. 

By the time he’d sobered up, he hardly remembered that he’d done it, anyway. Not that it would have surprised him at all, to hear it. Ardyn Izunia was not a man to be surprised. Not anymore. But the responses to his latest Roman Architecture assignment had come close. 

At home, Ardyn reads through email after email, asking questions about formatting, citations, and all of the other scholarly minutiae that made him regret his last-minute change in career. 

The evening was growing old and the wine glass at his elbow growing empty. He wouldn’t have to concern himself with the hangover waiting for him tomorrow. Ardyn didn’t teach on Fridays, let alone leave the house to do much more than take a drive or catch up on his reading at the cafe down the lane. 

So, instead of enjoying his wine and his -rather dry, in his opinion-biography, Ardyn distracts himself by answering each and every email. Yes, use proper punctuation. No, I don’t care how you cite sources. Please don’t write poems about Classical Rome, because it’s been done before and by much better authors than yourself. Yes, you have to pick from the prompts provided. If Ardyn had to read another pedestrian piece about ‘that summer I spent in Rome’, he was going to tear his hair out. And he rather liked his hair. 

He had selected each of the prompts with the precision of a scalpel, sharp and fine. He’d been sure to exclude anything relating to Nero’s life and rule. Not for any particular reason. 

And, speak of the devil, it’s 1 am when he reaches the email he’s been waiting for, at the bottom of his inbox, buried by ‘help’ and ‘quick question’ subject lines. Ardyn hadn’t returned your last message, because he’s not in grade school. Not everything needs a response. At least, right away. 

But you’ve already beat him to the punch. 

_Dr. Izunia,  
The link you provided to this week’s mandatory reading doesn’t work. I tried searching for the title YOUR syllabus provided-Ardyn chuckled a little at that-, but I couldn’t find a match online or in the library resources. _

__

_Are you going to provide an alternate reading?_

__

_Sincerely,_

Oh, dear, you’ve found him out. The reading, an excerpt from an older work on Rome’s vast history, had been taken down nearly four years earlier. Most people would use an outdated link as an excuse to skip the assignment; most everyone, since he’d begun this course, had done just that. 

Teaching wasn’t any fun if he didn’t get to test his students beyond the strictly academic. 

In light of this terse message, your dedication was starting to show. If you didn’t hate him so completely, Ardyn might have suspected you to be playing at teacher’s pet. In all likelihood, it had nothing to do with him and more to do with your GPA. That’s what Ardyn concludes as he fills his wine glass again. Just one more before bed. 

He slumps into his chair with more purpose than necessary and pushes up the sleeves of his robe, thin and silk and deep green. He types out a short response, neglecting to address the email, hoping it will come off as casual. 

_Keep up with the textbook for now. If you’re determined to do the supplemental reading, I can bring a hard copy for you this Tuesday._

He shuts his computer, unwilling to stare at the blue light for much longer. The candlelight that makes the shadows shudder across the walls is much easier on the eyes. The reading lamp clicks on and Ardyn leans back in his chair to begin the chapter again. He’d been too distracted upon first glance to absorb any of it. 

Ardyn is too distracted the second time as well. 

### Sunday

  
Sundays are reserved for grading and looking over his notes for the upcoming classes. As a student, Ardyn saved his assignments, even entire research papers, until the Sunday before they were due. And it was a habit he’d never grown out of. Ardyn discovered early that he worked best under pressure and with a suitable challenge.

Not everyone, especially not his students, feel the same way about challenging material. Last week’s quizzes for his Cathedrals class are scattered across the dining table; he wields a red pen like other men wield weapons, a dangerous and bloody business. The general grades are mediocre at best, and Ardyn has never been one to curve anything. Anything beyond the confines of a billiard table. 

You can learn a lot about a person over a game of pool, but you can learn more by the subjects they choose to write about. While your jab last week about Nero had been clever, you’ve adapted now that it’s no longer an option. 

Instead, along with two other unfortunate souls, Ardyn sees in your latest message, you’ve chosen to write about examples of the “Individual” in another time period or setting _only_ in architecture. He didn’t need anyone bringing him Pollack paintings or David Fincher films; he left the modern art for younger and duller men. 

He writes a large 4/10 :( at the top of a quiz page, despite the fact that there’s no answer key near him. The anatomy of a cathedral was more familiar to him than the anatomy of his own body. 

Ardyn is trying not to wonder what example you might pick. 

5/10, 7/10, 3/10. Abysmal. 

Maybe you’ll try to use it as a way to get under his skin: the extension of the ego and hubris of a man. 

6/10, 9/10, thank the gods. 

Maybe you’ll simply complete the assignment. 

4/10, 0/10. Why had he become a professor again? 

Now, Ardyn is trying not to think of which of the two he would prefer to read from you. 

### Tuesday

  
Hadrian’s Wall is perhaps Ardyn’s least favorite unit in the class. Partly because it is the most practical structure, which made it boring to study. It is not dissimilar to studying the way a river curved through a canyon. It just does.

But context is key. 

And nothing worth learning comes without diligence and sacrifice. 

Ardyn looks up from the projector slide he’s currently drawing on, a map of England, where the wall intersects the country. It seems his magnanimous decision to let the class go early last week has paid off. A few faces sit closer again, bored but not asleep. As the days grow shorter, it’s the best he can hope for. 

Ardyn doesn’t let his eyes wander over the sea of faces like usual. He focuses just beyond them, explaining the power, both the physical and cultural, of walls. Real borders that delineate the ‘us’ from the ‘them’ and what that does to social psychology and politics. The act of conquering peoples and constructing tangible proof of the conquest. 

Those aren’t quite the politics he’s interested in, but it does feel like there is a particularly high wall he can’t quite seem to scale. He catches you watching at the back of the class. He’s had a while to think about how to un-burn some bridges, to mix his metaphors. Something he’s never considered before. 

Perhaps the two of you just started off on the wrong foot. Convincing you of that fact might prove difficult. But Ardyn was nothing without his diligence and his sacrifices. 

The professor continues on with the lecture, the Antonine Wall and the quick abandonment of it only several years later. Why forfeiting these structures, whether leaving them to the elements or leaving them to their enemies, means more than simply letting go. It is possible to give up power both physically and metaphorically. It might be worth it to take that to heart. 

Now that class is nearly over, surprise quizzes being handed in one-by-one before the students depart, Ardyn can relax. He sits at a short table, to the side of the platform he’s spent much of the class pacing up and down. Leaning back, loosening his tie by the smallest degree, he catches your eyes. His first thought is to wonder how long you’ve been staring. 

His second is that you are the last to finish your quiz and the lecture hall is empty but for the two of you. These latter two occur simultaneously. 

“Your syllabus didn’t say anything about quizzes.” 

“And you’ve made a great study of the syllabus?” Ardyn’s respite has been cut short and seeing the tightness at the corner of your mouth and your arms crossed over your chest is worth it. 

“I read it, if that’s what you mean.” 

“It’s more than most students bother with.” 

“Then you must have a personal bias.” 

“Or years of observational evidence.” Ardyn counters. This is not the conversation he had imagined having. “Nevertheless, the quiz isn’t for your grade. I need to know what you’ve retained during the lectures. If you’ll notice, I didn’t include any questions about the supplemental reading.” He tries for something more obliging in his tone, expression. 

“Then why have the reading at all?” 

“Because I need to know who’s actually read the syllabus.” He’s caught you in a place you don’t want to be again, if the tension in your shoulders and the red -however lovely a color- in your face is any indication. “I’ve brought the book with me, if you’d care to look it over.” 

It’s a thin tome he pulls from an inner pocket of his overcoat, thumbed-through and dog-eared. He’s gracious enough to pretend not to notice you placing your quiz at the corner of the small table while he’s turned away. Instead, Ardyn sets the book at the opposite corner. A peace offering. 

Ardyn is not a patient man and he taps his manicured nails on the table while he watches you read over the summary on the back. The moment lasts intolerably long. 

“I thought it might be something you had written yourself.” You speak at last. 

“You thought or you hoped?” He really can’t resist teasing when you flash him those fiery eyes which simmer down to the perfect pout. 

“Neither. I thought it was another one of your games.” 

“You’re catching on.” Ardyn quips before he remembers what he’s been _trying_ to do all week. “However, this is one of my favorite books; I read it as an undergraduate myself.” 

Though he’s never considered himself to be any sort of sentimentalist, this is that very same copy with the same unrefined scribbles in the margins. 

“Keep it for the rest of the semester.” He waves vaguely, dismissively, because it **shouldn’t** mean anything to him if you read it or not. Ardyn watches you, watches you look over a few of the lines. 

“Fine.” Ardyn can hear the suspicion in your voice, catches himself before he smiles at it like a hunter might smile at a fox. 

“Have you thought of any examples of the ‘Individual’ for your midterm paper?” He changes the subject, more for his sake than yours. 

“Don’t want to spoil the surprise, professor.” 

“I’ve never really liked surprises.” 

“Even better then.” Your words aren’t as venomous as they’ve been in the past, maybe even playful, if Ardyn was feeling selfish. 

He may be vain but he’s not a narcissist. 

“I’ll be on the edge of my seat.” He lies- doesn’t lie- half-lies. “Until next Tuesday.” He adds, addressing you by name this time. Always your first name. 

A question hangs just behind your eyes when Ardyn’s gaze meets them, but it never comes. You don’t thank him, not that he expected you to, and you don’t say goodbye, not that he hoped you would. 

Once the door closes with an unmistakable screech and the room is his, Ardyn straightens the stack of quizzes. Just four simple questions he jotted down on a napkin over his morning coffee. He flips over the top paper to scan your answers, his curiosity likely to get the better of him one of these days. 

**3a.) Name one occasion or event that regularly took place in the Roman Coliseum.**

_Executions staged as scenes from mythology._

**3b.) In what way is this a demonstration of cultural power?**

_Watching those lesser than them suffer beautifully makes fools feel powerful._

In time, Ardyn may learn to appreciate surprises after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an experimental chapter structure, so I hope it read smoothly. This was the hardest chapter to write! ^_^* I thought the deep, hidden well of emotion that is Ardyn required a bit of explanation in this setting and I tried my best to provide it. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me! I have really, REALLY appreciated your kind comments and kudos! They mean the world to me!! ;_;


End file.
